Alice quickly stepped away from John.
Vernon pushed his way towards them, putting a proprietorial hand on Lotty’s head.
‘I thought I told you to wait for me, my dear,’ he said with a cold smile at Alice.
Ignoring John’s polite nod, he put his hand to Alice’s back and steered her into the church. As they sat in the relative cool of the interior, Vernon pinched her arm. ‘I hope you weren’t making a fool of yourself over Sinclair,’ he hissed.
She didn’t reply. He was not going to spoil her enjoyment of the day. Today it was best to let Vernon have his say and not answer back; then he would let the matter drop. Too often she sparked back at him causing the argument to escalate. She never won and often it ended in violence with him twisting her arm until her skin burnt or jabbing her in the breast, which was doubly painful.
Yet Vernon’s moods were so contrary that on some occasions her silent contempt proved an even greater irritant than her defiant words. He would try to goad her into a response but she would not be provoked. Alice only had to let her mind wander to thoughts of John and she became immune to her husband’s criticism and cruelty. It did not stop him inflicting small injuries – bruises that were invisible under her clothing – but she could bear anything as long as she knew John was near.
She watched him now, marching in with his friend Sturt, and her heart swelled with love. How she wished it was she and John who were marrying that day. Yet she was joyful for her friend Dinah, who was radiant with happiness in an ivory dress of muslin and lace and her dark hair bound up prettily in the style of young Queen Victoria. A picture of the monarch hung in the MacNaughtens’ drawing room and Dinah had been very taken with it.
Afterwards, there was a wedding feast laid on at the Sales’ house and the guests spilled out into their beautiful garden. There were Afghan friends there: the elderly Zemaun and his nephew Osman – Barukzai chiefs who were courteous and generous to the British officers in Kabul. Zemaun loved the Sales’ garden and had sent them plants as gifts when the cantonment was being built. Osman was a friendly young man; he was doing tricks with a coin for Lotty, Alexander and the other children.
Alice, seeing her daughter occupied and knowing that Vernon was inside slugging back champagne with other officers, slipped away to the far end of the garden where a riot of perfumed pink roses hung down over a trellis, creating a discreet bower.
A few minutes later, John appeared around the trellis. He took her by the hands and pulled him to her for a rash kiss. Alice’s heart thudded as laughter caught in her throat.
‘We shouldn’t,’ she whispered.
‘I can’t help it,’ said John with a grin. ‘I’ve been driven to distraction seeing you and not being able to hold you.’
They kissed again quickly and then broke apart.
‘What are we going to do, John?’ Alice asked. ‘I’m not sure how much more I can bear of these snatched moments.’
He seized her hand. ‘When things are more settled in the country I shall take you away from here – you and Lotty – and you’ll never have to live with that man again.’
‘Where shall we go?’ Alice asked in excitement.
‘Anywhere you want. We could live in the hills near Simla. My bearer Rajban comes from the Bushahir district. It’s a place of forests and meadows and rushing rivers. We could live simply but well.’
‘Can you see the mountain peaks from there?’ Alice asked dreamily.
‘We’ll watch the sunrise over them every morning,’ he promised. He reached to loosen her shawl and traced a finger across her chest. ‘I’ll take you to where the pashmina goats graze.’
Alice felt a shiver of delight at his touch. ‘My pashmina mountains,’ she said with a smile. ‘I used to look at them from Simla and imagine you there bartering for wool over a water-pipe.’
‘A water-pipe?’ John chuckled.
Alice’s daydream was suddenly spoilt by a memory of Vernon forcing her to smoke something hallucinogenic from a water-pipe at one of his rowdy dinner parties in Simla. Her face clouded.
‘But Vernon would come after me; I know he would,’ Alice said anxiously, ‘especially if it was you I’d run away with.’
‘Then we’ll go back to Britain – to Northumberland or Skye. You would be safe at Ramanish.’ He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘Have courage, my love. We’ll find a way of being together soon.’
Alice’s heart leapt. When she was with John she felt as brave as a lion and anything seemed possible. Before they could say more, they heard someone approaching and broke away, pretending to admire the roses.
It was Florentia. Alice knew she must be looking flushed and guilty.
‘Alice, I thought I’d find you in the garden,’ said the bride’s mother. She gave John an assessing look as he bowed at her. ‘I’m sorry to break into your horticultural conversation,’ she said dryly, ‘but your friend Mrs Ayton is in need of you.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Alice asked in sudden concern.
‘I think it’s all been a bit much for her. It would appear her baby has decided to come on my daughter’s wedding day.’
‘Goodness,’ Alice gasped. ‘I’ll go to her at once.’
Emily’s second child was born in the early hours of the following day; a boy who they named Walter. Alice had stayed up all night to help. Her friend was exhausted by the birth but it had been uncomplicated and both mother and baby had survived the ordeal. Sandy was overjoyed at his second son and Alexander was curious to see his new brother.
‘I’d have liked a sweet wee girl,’ Emily confessed to Alice, ‘like your Lotty. But Sandy’s happy.’
‘Walter is as sweet as they come,’ Alice replied, cradling the newborn in her arms before taking him out to show him to his father. She felt a special bond with this baby from the moment she saw him emerge from between Emily’s legs. What a miracle birth was! She gave a silent prayer of thanks when the baby uttered its first querulous cry.
Tired but exultant, Alice walked up the street in the dawn, pausing to look at the salmon-pink sky over the mountains. The citadel of Kabul sat brooding on its rock. She thought of John lying on a charpoy in the open air – he had told her he only slept indoors during the coldest weeks of winter – and wished she could lie down beside him. Have courage, my love. We’ll find a way of being together soon. Would that ever be possible or were they just indulging in fantasy?
Entering the house, Alice hoped that Vernon had gone back to Kabul after the wedding. Her heart plunged to see him sprawled in a chair by the unlit fire, two empty bottles of brandy rolling at his feet. She tiptoed past but he couldn’t have been asleep as the movement roused him. He reached out and grabbed at her dress.
‘Don’t try to give me the slip,’ he growled. ‘Where have you been all this time?’
‘You know where – delivering Emily’s baby,’ said Alice. ‘She had another boy. He’s called Walter.’
‘Bloody Ayton! He’ll be lording it over me with two sons.’
‘Of course he won’t.’ Alice sighed. ‘Can’t you just be happy for them for once?’
‘Why can’t you produce a son and heir for me, eh?’ Vernon snarled.
‘I’m tired and I’m going to bed.’
His grip on her dress tightened. ‘Don’t ignore me. Why am I the only married officer whose wife can’t give him a boy? The other wives are breeding like rabbits.’
Alice’s patience snapped. ‘You’ve got a son, remember?’
‘A bastard half-breed son,’ he replied. ‘He’s never going to be acceptable to my father to carry on the Buckley name.’
Alice felt nothing but utter contempt for this man. She snatched her dress from his grasp. Vernon got to his feet.
‘You’ll not stay away from my bed any longer. I forbid you to sleep in the girl’s room. You have a duty to give me an heir.’
Alice turned on him. ‘I will never lie with you again,’ she cried. ‘Never!’
He came
after her but his lame leg was stiff from sitting and he could only hobble. Alice hurried quickly to Lotty’s room and barred the door. Vernon hammered on it.
‘You’ll do as I say! Let me in. You’re nothing but a whore! I’ve been hearing about you and bloody Sinclair – seeing him behind my back. I bet you open your legs easily enough for that Scotch savage!’
Lotty woke and started crying at the noise. Alice gathered her daughter in her arms and tried to cover her ears.
‘It’s all right, my darling,’ Alice crooned. ‘Daddy’s playing a game.’
‘D-don’t like it,’ Lotty sobbed.
‘No, he’ll stop soon.’
Alice lay down and cuddled Lotty into her hold, stroking her hair as Vernon continued to pound on the door and yell obscenities. Her heart raced in fright that he would break in and subject her to a beating – or, worse still, harm Lotty. Vernon had never laid a finger on the girl up till now but he sounded so angry that Alice did not trust him.
She closed her eyes and tried to calm her breathing. She thought she would vomit from fear.
‘You’ll not deny me,’ Vernon raged. ‘You’re my wife and you’ll do as I say.’
Eventually, he grew tired and stopped his shouting. She heard him limping off and then his bedroom door slamming. Alice’s relief was mingled with humiliation. What had Gita and others of the household thought of the commotion? The gossip would soon be all around the cantonment servants. From there it would spread to the officers’ wives. But perhaps it was already common knowledge that Vernon was a boor of a husband and that Alice denied him his rights in the marriage bed. Some in the British community would see her refusal to perform her wifely duties as the greater sin.
Alice cared nothing for wagging tongues about herself but she did not want John’s name to be bandied around as the cause of the friction. He was ten times the man Vernon would ever be, and she would not have him blamed for her rotten marriage.
CHAPTER 31
Kabul, autumn 1841
It worried John to distraction that he had not set eyes on Alice for weeks. Soon after Sturt’s wedding, John had gone to the south-west to relay intelligence; fighting had broken out around Kandahar and Nott’s troops had gone out from the southern citadel and engaged in battle across the River Helmand. The Douranee chief who had led the rebellion had fled and the other chiefs had been forced to come to Kabul to swear loyalty to Shah Shuja or be sent into exile. John had been interpreter for the Pashto-speaking leaders, who had come reluctantly to the royal palace.
By September, an uneasy truce had settled on the land and MacNaughten was sending optimistic letters to Auckland that all was peace and tranquillity, even though he was privately worried about the state of Shah Shuja’s health. The amir was prone to bouts of fever and melancholy and was beginning to parrot those chiefs around him who voiced their growing resentment at the British.
John had made it his business to know what they discussed behind the thick wooden doors of the Balla Hissar. In the past month, he had also travelled among the Ghilzais and been away in the Kohistan visiting his dead wife’s family. It was there that he had picked up the most alarming news.
In early October, he went to confront MacNaughten. The envoy had been avoiding him, cancelling meetings. John slipped into the cantonment late one night and caught MacNaughten readying for bed.
‘Sir, this can’t wait,’ John insisted.
The envoy showed him reluctantly into his study. Like all the rooms in the mission house, it was richly furnished with carpets and polished furniture. Its bookcases were lined with large tomes on oriental history and language. MacNaughten was a cultured and intelligent man who thought the best of people; John had to convince him that the British were not nearly as well loved as the envoy thought.
John went straight to the gravest news first.
‘Dost Mohammed’s son, the sirdar Akbar, is back on Afghan soil. He’s in the Hindu Kush gathering support.’
‘Nonsense.’ MacNaughten laughed. ‘Sirdar Akbar’s in exile.’
‘He’s in Bamian,’ said John bluntly.
‘This is gossip from the bazaar, surely?’
‘I’ve heard it directly from Khan Shereen Khan, the Kazilbashi chief. He is a good friend to the British and wished to warn us.’
MacNaughten looked dashed. ‘Even if it’s true, Akbar has no following. The country is united now in loyalty to Shah Shuja.’
‘The country may be growing in unity,’ said John, ‘but it’s a confederacy against the British that unifies them. Akbar is watching and waiting to see how other rebellions go before making his move.’
‘Other rebellions?’ scoffed MacNaughten. ‘There are no other rebellions. General Nott has ensured that all revolt in the west has been put down.’
‘Not so,’ John insisted. ‘There’s talk of invasion from Herat with Persian backing. There’s trouble breaking out in east Ghilzai and that is giving heart to rebels in the Kohistan. Tribes in both areas are angry that the money they were promised to keep the peace has not been forthcoming.’
‘Money!’ the envoy cried. ‘Don’t talk to me about money. I’ve spent a king’s ransom on these people.’
‘Not as much as we pledged.’
‘Well, there isn’t any more to dish out,’ MacNaughten snapped. ‘I’ve asked for more and so has Auckland. But our new Tory masters in London have told us we must make economies. Afghanistan is costing too much. Some of these stipends to chiefs will have to go and the royal household will have to tighten its belt too.’ He sighed loudly. ‘Yet another difficult conversation I will have to have with the amir.’
John was dismayed. ‘You must at least keep your word to the Ghilzais,’ he challenged, ‘if you want to keep the passes open between here and India. They could make life here impossible for us if they cut our supply lines.’
‘You exaggerate the problem, I’m sure. They are far richer since the British came than they were before – they won’t want to bite the hand that feeds them.’
‘But we’re no longer feeding them, sir,’ John pointed out in frustration. ‘I have heard what they are planning – the Ghilzai chiefs. They are not going to sit around in Kabul any longer paying lip service to Shah Shuja. They’re plotting to occupy the passes to Jalalabad and raid the camel trains coming up from India. If we won’t pay them, they’ll take what’s owed to them in the way they know best – by force.’
MacNaughten rubbed a hand over his tired face. ‘My God, I can’t wait to be gone from this job.’
John felt a twinge of sympathy. The envoy was a good man and he had worked tirelessly for three years to try to make a success of the rash invasion and keep Shah Shuja happy.
‘We all look for the day when we can leave here,’ said John, ‘but it won’t happen without a bloodbath unless we take heed of the chiefs’ grievances.’
MacNaughten looked at him with sad eyes. ‘I hope you’re wrong, Lieutenant. As for me and Lady MacNaughten, the ordeal is nearly over.’
‘Sir?’ John frowned.
‘I’m to be the next Governor of Bombay – I’ve just heard.’ He gave a snort. ‘It’s my reward for our “glorious restoration of the rightful Afghan king to the throne”.’
John’s insides felt leaden. No wonder MacNaughten did not want to hear his message of doom; the man was already picturing himself enjoying the lush surroundings of the governor’s mansion by a turquoise Arabian Sea.
‘Congratulations, sir,’ John said, with a short bow. ‘Who will take over from you?’
‘Lieutenant Colonel Burnes, of course. He’s been itching to take over my position since I got here. Perhaps he’ll make a better job of understanding what these tribesmen want.’
Silently, John agreed. Burnes had more friends among the Afghans than anyone. He knew them intimately – some too intimately – and that was where his weakness lay. John had heard the threats of revenge made behind Burnes’s back; some would like to cut the throat of the feringhi soldier for his
licentious behaviour with their Afghan women.
As John left the mission house with a heavy heart, he thought grimly of Vernon, who also courted danger by keeping his Afghan mistress in the city and fathering her child. Rumour had it that the Ghilzai girl was pregnant again. Her brother, Chief Abdullah, was threatening to put out Vernon’s eyes for dishonouring his sister. But Vernon was no fool; he made sure he was well guarded when he stayed in the city. That’s why John knew that Buckley was in Kabul that night, for there had been two sepoys on duty at his gateway earlier in the evening.
That was John’s other reason for visiting the mission compound; he was worried about Alice. Vernon had abused him drunkenly in the bazaar one day.
‘Keep your filthy Scotch hands off my wife, Sinclair,’ he’d slurred. ‘She’s done with you. Never wants see you again, you hear? She’s mine – always will be.’
John kept in the shadows as he walked to Alice’s house. The place was in darkness. He knocked gently at the door.
‘Alice,’ he called softly. ‘It’s John. Let me in.’
There was no answer and yet he knew that she must be inside. He could smell wood smoke from the chimney.
‘Alice, please answer. I’m worried about you.’
John wondered if he should slip around to the servants’ quarters and ask to be let in the house. But he did not want to cause Alice trouble. He stood gripped with indecision. It could not be possible that Alice had had a change of heart about him. He knew from her kisses and passionate words that she loved him – had never stopped loving him all the time they had been apart. The thought thrilled and sustained him in the moments of danger when he rode alone among the barren mountain passes, picking up intelligence or wrapping himself in a blanket to sleep under the stars.
Yet he had not seen her for nearly two months. Had she had second thoughts or given up on the idea of them having a future together? He refused to believe it. It was far more likely that Vernon had bullied her into submission. He knew Alice was a brave woman who stood up to her husband but what if he had made threats to her life? John felt impotent rage at the thought. Perhaps she had decided that the only way to have a peaceful life was to do as Vernon said – at least for the time being. Was that why Alice would not answer his knocking?
In the Far Pashmina Mountains Page 37
